


Escape from Paradise

by Kevnis



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Dealing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Shady Criminal Organisations, There's a coffeeshop in ch1 but it's not a coffeeshop AU don't get your hopes up, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kevnis/pseuds/Kevnis
Summary: Soft, demure bookshop owner A. Ziraphale lives in a state of comfortable denial. This will soon be violently dismantled, however, when he meets A. J. Crowley - a man who could not possibly be more his opposite, yet who holds a disturbing mirror to his own internal conflicts. And Crowley, though at peace with himself, finds himself trapped in a professional life that he despises. Circumstances pit the two against each other, and yet they can't help but feel a connection that might end up roping them into helping each other instead.





	1. Chapter 1

Eden was a café.

To be precise, it was a café in London. It was small, and independently run, and always a tad short-staffed – though it is the honest and unfortunate reality that most places are always short-staffed. But Eden could hold its own against the large-chain coffee shops that threatened to encroach upon it. There was a Starbucks down the street, and around the corner, and they could get your drink for you faster and cheaper. But they would never close in on Eden entirely. It prospered; a plant that had lain its roots far too deep down to be strangled by weeds. The chains could do coffee, and even baked goods, fast and cheap and well enough.

But Eden did them _better_.

So it’s no surprise that their regulars were generous and loyal, and similarly, it’s to be expected that on a particularly frigid Monday morning, Eden would be busy.

As it happened, ‘busy’ was an understatement. The first autumn chill had arrived right on time, and a crowd of people who had just broken out their coats and scarves from their summer storage were packed into the soothing warmth of the café. Eden was bursting at the seams with the impatient friction of the masses who were late for work, or were running late for work, or who _would _be late if their order was going to take _any bloody longer than this._

And then, there was one who stood out. One who didn’t fidget his hands or chew on his nails or shift nervously from one foot to the other. One who was in no rush at all, because he knew his schedule, he had plenty of time to spare, and he had counted on the morning crowd. He didn’t understand who in their right mind wouldn’t do the same.

Calmly, smoothly, he brushed a short lock of golden hair behind his ear. It was getting long, he noticed. Almost down to his jaw, at the longest. Too long, probably. He was due for a haircut. It was a melancholy realisation, a resigned one, because he liked the waves and curls that his hair started to form when it grew out long enough. He wanted to let it grow out. But that wasn’t done. It was odd, and unprofessional, for a man to have long hair. It gave people the wrong impression of you.

Suddenly uncomfortable, he absentmindedly let his fingers shift to nervously rubbing at the collar of his jacket.

The line moved forward. Startled by the rustle of human bodies, the patient man jerked his hand away from his collar again. His gaze darted from one corner of his vision to the other, before settling on the window.

Storm clouds were gathering outside. The man watched the first drops of rain collide against the glass. Despite being inside, and therefore safe from the cold and encroaching deluge, he shrugged his jacket up closer around his neck like a bird ruffling its feathers. The line advanced again, staggered. He was nearly at the front of it now.

And that was when the door slammed open.

The building wind outside whined dramatically through the open doorway for a moment, before it closed again. A man had entered through it.

He stood, panting slightly, hair and clothes damp from the mounting drizzle. He was not tall, but he was imposing, with a confident stance and a stifling aura of self-assurance even in his state of mild panic. His hair was dark, and his tailored three-piece suit was all charcoal black, and despite the fact that the day was nowhere close to being bright, he wore heavily tinted sunglasses.

The patient man sighed, and returned his gaze due forward. He didn’t see the new arrival quickly regain his composure, drawing himself up to full height and sliding his hands neatly into his pockets. He didn’t see him unapologetically sidle past the line of waiting people. He didn’t see him again, until a slender hand was already on his shoulder.

“Uhf, this day is going down like a lead balloon already,” said a smooth voice in his ear, “Really, who the _bloody hell_ designed the M25?”

“I’m sorry,” the patient man said politely, after clearing his throat. “Do I know you?”

His words were soft. His eyes drifted to the side, and he saw the man with the sunglasses looming there, grinning amicably. Smooth, charismatic. He was sure he’d never met him, or even seen him, before.

“No. At least not yet. Mind letting me jump on your order? I’m having one hell of a day.”

His chosen target exhaled forcefully, weighing the decision.

“Very well.”

They were at the front of the line now. The one who had actually waited his turn for the privilege ordered first. An Earl Grey tea for himself, and a latte for the co-worker he’d be joining soon. Then his new companion placed his request, which included enough extra shots of espresso to make the other’s eyes widen in concern.

The barista took everything down meticulously. Then, they asked for a name. The man with the sunglasses jumped in before his reluctant helper could even open his mouth.

“A. J. Crowley.”

The barista furrowed their brow and pursed their lips for a moment, the permanent marker in one hand poised uncertainly as they stared blankly at the paper cup held in the other. Whatever might have been at the forefront of their mind in that moment, however, went unasked, and they quickly scribbled something down on each of the three cups that they had retrieved for the order. Then, after a few taps on the keyboard of their nearby register, they informed the waiting men of the price.

The man called A. J. Crowley paid for the full order, and told them to keep the change. He had money. What he didn’t have was _time_.

“That’ll be ready for you in just a minute,” The barista said, in a voice that managed to be just as cheerful as it was robotic.

“Thank you,” said one of the men they had been addressing, kindly.

“Hm,” the other bluntly agreed.

The former risked a sidelong glance at the latter. He still hadn’t taken off his sunglasses, and it was safe to assume at this point that he never would. As they stepped out of line and around the bar counter to wait for their drinks, the one who did not have a skewed perception of what eyewear is appropriate in which scenarios cast his gaze quickly away from his new companion and back out the coffee shop window.

The rain was really picking up out there. It was dark now, no sign of the blue sky above in sight. Gusts of wind pushed the unrelenting downpour of raindrops into sheets of water ready to batter anyone who would dare to brave it. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Then white echoes of lightning flashed briefly across the clouds and a second crack of thunder, closer now, roared commandingly.

The man who watched it turned his head away. He had never liked storms. He wasn’t the superstitious type, but he had always had a sinking feeling somewhere in him, a chill up his spine, that made him feel as though a heavy storm might be some portent of ill. An indication that something was going, or had gone, rather wrong. A bad omen.

Reflexively, and apologetically, his hand floated up to his neck.

A. J. Crowley saw the motion out of the corner of his eye, and it caught his attention. His head did not move, but behind his sunglasses, his eyes did. They found his acquaintance’s hand, and lighted on the thumb and the index and middle fingers. They were nervously rubbing a thin, gold chain between them.

He recoiled internally. Granted, the chain found its end somewhere under the man’s shirt, shielded from view, so there was no way to know for _certain_. But generally, one only found a single, specific symbol at the end of a thin gold necklace, and the kind of person who wore those was the kind of person that he tended to avoid.

But it didn’t matter, really, not in the long run. He straightened his posture, stiffly, brushing it off. It wasn’t as if he was ever going to see this man again. If he could use him to get a drink, so much the better. He had seemed, at first, the type that Crowley might think to strike up a conversation with if he were bored and had nothing better to do. But he had been neither of those things in the first place.

What he _was_, was late. And his job was not one that the average person would ever care to be late to. Luckily, they knew him there. Knew him and, for lack of a better word, liked him well enough for his occasional transgression of tardiness to be forgiven with little more than an eyeroll and a stern admonition.

Still.

He checked his watch.

_Cutting it a bit close_, he realised with an unpleasant downturn of his mouth. He might have a fairly long lead, but the grip on it was firm, and balled into a fist. He really didn’t want to risk it today.

Thunder crashed, so close and heavy it sounded as though it may even have made the café windows rattle. The storm was almost overhead now. It made the worrying hand on the gold chain flinch away again.

A. J. Crowley heard his name, and rushed to grab the offered drinks that had been labelled with it.

Well, he realised on closer examination, they had _almost _been labelled with his name.

He wrapped one hand around his own cup and lifted it out of the cardboard tray it had been presented in as he turned to offer the rest to his unwitting pawn.

“That’s not how you spell it,” he said, to no one in particular. His companion nearly fumbled the tray of drinks as it was handed to him, and out of curiosity, he checked the words that were scrawled on the cups. The swirls of black ink spelled out “Ajay Crowley”.

Presumably, A. J. were his initials. At least, that was what the blond man had assumed at first. He didn’t think it was the pronunciation of his first name.

Shifting the tray to one hand, he tried to offer, presumably, “A. J.” the money he was owed for paying for the full order.

“Keep it,” he dismissed carelessly, as he turned on his heel. The next moment, he had slipped away, gone as quickly as he had come.

The one he left behind opened his mouth to say something, and closed it again when he realised it was too late. A moment later, he also realised he didn’t even know what it was he wanted to say. “Thank you”? Or “What _is_ your name”? Or “Goodbye”?

Most likely, all of them. As if any, much less all of it, would have fit into the split second between when the stranger was there and when he was gone.

His nervous habit manifested again, and he reached up to touch his chest. Through the fabric of his shirt and sweater, his fingertips found the delicate golden cross under it. He couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps, somehow, he might have done something bad.

Thunder cracked again. He had somewhere to be, he remembered. He’d best start getting there.

* * *

Peeling away from Eden, caffeine-saturated concoction in hand, Anthony J. Crowley – who went by his last name, more often than not, on the rare occasion when someone actually asked his preference – was wondering if he might have accidentally done something good for once.

He dismissed the thought. It wasn’t as though he had actually wanted to repay the man for helping him out. He quite simply genuinely didn’t care about a few pounds here or there.

Besides, any small amount of good he might have caused would surely be undone by what he was about to do, anyway.

* * *

The bookshop in Soho was not flashy. It was not large. It was named, quite simply, after its owner. It had been part of a small chain once, and it had gone by a different name then, before it went under. A year ago, when the company pulled out and closed its doors, the manager of that particular storefront had stepped up and bought the place. They had given him a good price for it, with well-placed trust in him and above all, an eagerness to get out quickly and cut their losses as much as possible.

For the manager, it had been an investment. Not just in a place, but in a dream. He had always wanted to own his own bookshop.

They had left him most of the books as well. Previously, the shop had had an exchange program. Donating any lightly-used books of your own would gain you a certain amount of store credit to go towards any purchases you would subsequently make. The manager-turned-owner had been very fond of that policy, and kept it going. He wasn’t particularly tech savvy, but with a little help, he had even managed to transfer all the existing donation-credit records over from the old chain to his run of the shop. Everyone who had been a regular before stayed that way through the change in name and ownership, and if anything became even more loyal. They had always liked the manager, and they wanted him to do well.

If he knew that – which was doubtful – he couldn’t have cared less. He cared about the books. He cared about keeping them around, and making sure the shop stayed open and successful was only to facilitate that end.

His name was Abraham Ziraphale, and he was struggling to find the right key on his keyring with only one hand while the other balanced a disposable cardboard tray of one coffee and one tea.

Eventually, and with the brief help of his mouth to hold the keyring while his fingers sorted through the keys, he managed.

He unlocked the front door of his bookshop, and walked in. Using mostly muscle memory, the hand that wasn’t holding the drinks lingered behind him as the door closed to flip the hanging sign on its interior from “CLOSED” to “OPEN”.

One more step in his morning routine. He paused, and let a deep, satisfied breath fill his lungs, then expelled it. The mingled scent of countless pages, both new and old, crisp and worn, fresh and well-loved, filled his senses. He adored walking in to that smell, every morning of every day.

It was still dark outside, and the rain was falling in torrents, and Abraham’s overcoat was soaked. But now that all seemed very distant. Because the shop was warm and dry and smelled like books, and he had a cup of tea. And those comforts could overpower the threat of any storm.

He turned on the lights, and he woke up the bookshop’s computer to allow its POS system to boot up. He took off his coat, and hung it on one of the coat hangers that he kept in the back room for that purpose. While there, he also unlocked the register tray from its safe, and returned to the front store to slide it into its drawer. Then another quick trip to the back room to retrieve his nametag before he locked it back up.

He pinned the nametag to the right breast of his olive green sweater vest. It wasn’t something he would ever openly admit to, but Abraham wasn’t much fond of his name. Not of any part of it. But he found his last name more tolerable than his first, so his nametag did not display his given name. It only said: A. ZIRAPHALE. 

He only had two employees, one of whom had been around before the change in ownership, and who mainly just popped by a few times per week or so to see how the shop was doing, because she was fond of Abraham, and proud of him, and despite having moved on to better work since, she still wanted to lend a hand at the shop and make sure it was still functional.

The other, whom he was waiting on now, was a student with an enthusiasm for books that he appreciated and a quiet manner that he liked even more. She didn’t make much conversation, but was very amiable when she did. She learned fast and well, and was patient, and got along well with the customers. In truth, she was much more sociable with them than he was, which made her help quite invaluable.

She was also incredibly tolerant with her boss’ occasional ill-advised indulgences. Once in a while, when they got in a shipment of new books or when a customer brought in an old one for donation, she would see his eyes light up with an unmistakeable covetous gleam. Inevitably, he would bring it up to the desk grasped firmly in both hands and say, guiltily, “Evelin, I’m buying this.”

She appreciated him as well. “Evelin” was not her legal name, but it was the one he called her, and the one he put on her nametag. It would be hypocritical of him not to, considering that he also didn’t like having to use his name, but that wasn’t why he did it. Abraham was naïve, she could tell. He wasn’t dull, in fact he was quite intelligent in several areas. But he was endearingly ignorant in others, and genuinely kind. He wouldn’t see a reason to ask about Evelin’s name even if he _had_ given it a moment’s thought.

Many of the books that he bought ended up in the shop’s own back room. He had bookshelves at home, but the space on them was limited and precious, and half the time he ended up bringing them to work to read on breaks and forgetting them there anyway. Besides, the back room of the shop had better security than Abraham’s flat did, so he felt more secure storing them there anyway. As a result, many of his favourites ended up hoarded, in a kind of organised chaos, in there.

As he took delicate sips of his tea – it was still just a touch too hot for him to do much else – his eyes wandered to the door in the rear wall again. He wondered if he had time to get a bit of reading done before anyone came in.

As if in answer, the front door opened then, letting a gust of cold air steal inside like a cat’s paw clutching into a mouse hole. Abraham looked up, feeling a reflexive twinge of guilt, as though his secret longing to have a few more minutes alone were something that might be both visible and shameful.

It was Evelin. The rest of the breath in his lungs was expelled in relief as he recovered what remained of his peace of mind.

She was tall, with a pleasant oval- shaped face, and her hair was always meticulously dyed a uniform shade of royal blue. When loose, it reached her shoulders, but today as ever, she had it tied back. Multiple hair elastics of differing colours and thicknesses adorned her wrists for exactly this purpose. She wore black jeans and, somewhat reluctantly, the long-sleeved button-down shirt that Abraham had requested of her as a passable semblance of a uniform. Today, she had layered a cardigan and a black rain jacket over it to protect herself from the adverse conditions outside.

“Hi,” she greeted cheerily as she approached her boss, shrugging off the rain jacket as she did so. “Can I drop this in the back room?”

“Please do.” Abraham responded with a small, gentle smile. He handed her the keys once she reached the desk, and she gave him a grin of thanks in return.

“Mind you don’t get water on the books!” He requested as a second thought. As she unlocked the door, she gave him an emphatic nod to let him know she wouldn’t dream of it, before disappearing momentarily inside. She re-emerged before the door even had a chance to close behind her.

“I brought you coffee,” Abraham said as she returned to the checkout desk, proffering the cup to her, “As thanks for having you come in on one of your days off.”

Evelin took it with a warm smile. Abraham made it rather impossible not to like him, though it wasn’t as though she had been trying not to in the first place. He was considerate, which could be regrettably rare these days. It was true Evelin usually only worked weekends, when the store was busy enough to warrant it, but he had only called her in for a few hours this morning, and she didn’t have any conflicting plans anyway. It didn’t, in her mind, warrant any sort of apologetic gift. But of course, Abraham always thought of these things when other people wouldn’t.

“Aw,” she beamed, “Thank you.” She took a sip, then finding the taste and temperature pleasant, a more enthusiastic one.

“So what’s the emergency anyway?” She asked, “Think it’ll be busy today?”

“No, no,” Abraham reassured, “I only needed a bit of help shelving some books. Our new shipment came in early, and we had… considerably more donations than average yesterday.”

Evelin chuckled slightly at how measured his words were. “Everyone brought their old books in at the same time, you mean?” She asked, “You don’t have to be so formal, you know. What century are you from, anyway?”

A shy smile tugged at the corners of Abraham’s mouth at his employee’s gentle chiding. And then – he didn’t know why, or even consciously note that it had happened at all – it fell as he saw her lift the coffee cup in her hand to eye-level. Her brow furrowed in curious scrutiny.

“Who’s Ayjay?” Evelin asked, “It’s not you, is it?”

Mr. Ziraphale suddenly found himself possessed by the urge to tidy up the shop, and rose from behind the desk to busy himself with filtering through the box of donated books that he had accepted and sorted through the previous evening.

“Ah, no,” he said, his back still turned to Evelin as he found himself suddenly interested in one of the books, turning it over pensively in his hands as he pondered over where it would find its home in the shop. “No, just someone I met at the coffee shop.”

He was about to follow that up with “Peculiar character,” but thought better of it. That sort of comment might invite further questions from Evelin. Unfortunately from him, she didn’t need any prompting whatsoever.

“Oh! Friend of yours?”

“Er, no. No, I’d never met him before actually. He just wanted to add his order to mine so he could skip the queue.”

Abraham was becoming more and more unsettled by this line of interrogation. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like A. J. Crowley was the kind of person he really shouldn’t have been talking to. As though, somehow, their brief interaction might have sullied him by association.

“Oh. He bought it for you though?”

“Yes, I suppose he did.” The bookshop owner’s hand dipped below the collar of his shirt, procuring the little golden cross, and he rubbed it with a nervous rigour between his fingers as he tried to focus on the titles of the books in the box in front of him. This one he recognised, it belonged in non-fiction, that one seemed like fantasy but he would have to double check, the little paperback here-

“That was nice.”

Abraham cleared his throat with some difficulty, then admitted, “Yes, I suppose it was.”

“Think you’ll see him again?” Evelin wondered aloud. She approached the box of donations, hovering just a few paces behind.

“No. No, I should hope not. Take these to Biographies and shelve them, would you please?” Without turning around, Abraham extended his arm out. His hand clutched two volumes in it, with a grip that was perhaps a mite stronger than it needed to be. Evelin took the hint.

“Sure thing!” she agreed, taking the books carefully into her free hand and tucking them under her arm as she whisked them off to their proper home.

Biographies, as it happened, was on the opposite end of the store.

Abraham’s eyes closed. A long exhale hissed through his pursed lips. The fingertips that held the cross pressed together, feeling as though they might crush it between them, and then just as quickly released. The tiny pendant fell to its owner’s chest, and he furtively tucked it away under his shirt again.

His eyes opened, and he gathered himself together. He reached for another book to determine its genre, then remembered something. He made a quick return trip to the checkout desk, where he had left his tea, and snatched it up before returning to his work.

The pleasant beverage helped. It warmed his throat with every sip, and radiated heat from the inside that fought off the blanket of wet London cold permeating into the shop from the outdoors. It was comforting. It worked, slowly, to dissolve away at the ball of nameless worry in his chest.

Abraham and Evelin worked away at the donated books, then at the boxes of new ones that Abraham procured from the back. Occasionally, she brought him an extra that she had found discarded somewhere around the shop or shelved incorrectly. They made polite but shallow conversation, talked about the sudden turn in weather and how business was going and how their week had been. And mercifully, she didn’t mention their mysterious coffee sponsor again.

Still, he let her leave earlier than he’d initially planned. Shelving had gone smoothly, and it didn’t appear as though the day would end up being a particularly busy one, and Abraham had time enough to finish tidying and cleaning the store on his own. It wasn’t that he _wanted _to be alone. It was simply the practical decision, and one he didn’t mind following through with.

They parted with an amicable farewell, and a “see you this weekend” that was genuine and content.

And yet, when Evelin closed the door behind her, the gentle bookshop owner felt a little pulse of relief wash through him. There had been a mild tension in his chest, so minor he hadn’t even noticed it until it was released.

Behind the narrow wooden checkout desk was a tall cushioned stool, and a small wicker rubbish bin lined with a plastic bag, and there was solace. The security of being in the rear corner of an area, and mostly walled in on three sides. Next to the register with its computer display was one of Abraham’s current reads, a thick fabric bookmark keeping his page a little less than halfway through. He gravitated back to that space behind the counter, like an antelope to a watering hole.

But as he sat, and picked up his book, he felt like he was being watched by a submerged crocodile.

He turned to meet its gaze.

He wouldn’t normally reach into the wastebasket, even though he had changed the bag lining it the night before and only one item had been discarded in it today. But in this instance, it was clear he had to make an exception.

His smooth hand delved shallowly into it, lifted the empty paper cup that still smelled of the pleasantly bitter tea, long since gone, that it had contained. He turned the cup over, until the black handwritten name that bored into his mind was concealed. And he dropped it, like that, facedown, back into the wastepaper basket.

Things felt peaceful again. No more unbidden reminders of the day’s earlier events threatened to trouble him any longer.

Abraham, owner of the little Soho bookshop that had been named, without much creativity, A. Ziraphale & Co. Booksellers, would enjoy a week or two more of this intentional blissful ignorance, before a vivid reminder would cross his threshold.


	2. Chapter 2

Anthony Crowley’s job was as a financial advisor with Brimstone Business Solutions.

This was only his occupation in a legal capacity. In reality, Brimstone Business Solutions did not exist, and Crowley’s true job was far more intimidating.

His job was, literally,_ intimidating_. 

If he was lucky – and most of the time, he was – he would only have to do a small amount of intimidation. Usually, his employers tasked him with the relatively simple act of driving a pre-determined route through a few of the subsections of London that were under their control, and paying visits to the establishments that, at one time or another, had made the unfortunate decision to install themselves there. He walked in, with his dark suit and his dark glasses and his dark demeanour, and if the residents were smart, they’d already have the money ready for him and would hand it over without delay so that both parties could get on with their lives.

If they weren’t so intelligent, and had lost track of what day it was, Crowley kindly reminded them, and they would scuffle about nervously to procure the necessary cash or plead with him to pay by another method. Fortunately for these poor souls, “Brimstone Business Solutions” frowned upon, but did on special occasions accept, cheques.

Once in a blue moon, Crowley happened upon someone who was woefully unintelligent, or who did not have the funds to pay their due. That was where more of the true intimidation came in. All he had to do was scare them a little; ascertain whether or not they were telling the truth, or if they knew what would happen to them if they could not provide what they owed. It was simple enough – he would stand there like he owned the place (which he did not, but his superiors almost certainly did), and ooze confidence and menace until it seemed as though even the shadow he cast were large and dangerous enough to engulf his victim, and he would have a little talk with the owner or owners about how fragile the bones of a human hand are, how easily and how painfully they fracture, how flammable the interior of the average house is and how easy it would be to find their home from the wealth of information he already had about them.

Those were only a few examples of the things he said, his favourites, his go-to buzz phrases. They were simple and effective. If he was having a particularly bad day, or if the situation demanded it, he could be more elaborate. But typically it didn’t take much for his conversational partner to suddenly think of _some _way that they could pay, after all.

If they still insisted that they could not, Crowley’s job then was really the most miniscule role of all. But it was the one he hated the most. He merely had to inform them that his boss would be hearing about this. And then, _he would tell him_.

And his boss would send someone else to do the real dirty work.

Most of the time, Crowley never had to lay a hand on another person.

Most of the time.

For very nearly the entire drive to his destination that morning, with the exception of when he arrived and it became necessary to park, Crowley’s foot did not lift even a fraction of an inch off the accelerator. Still, he was 27 minutes behind schedule – according to his watch, which was always exactly correct for each of the six different time zones that it monitored.

It didn’t matter that he was walking into the shop late, that the attention his silhouette commanded was somewhat marred by the distinctive oblong of the paper coffee cup in one hand, from which he still took the occasional deep and hungry sip. All that, as the owner recognised him instantly with a spark of horror, was a non-issue.

The problem would be if his tardiness persisted. His generous patrons had no deadline for him. He arrived when he arrived, and they had to deal with the rest. But Crowley had someone to report back to, and his boss was impatient. It wouldn’t do to keep him waiting.

This person was an intelligent one. The initial expression of heart-sinking dread that had flashed across his face quickly melted into a mask of amicability, as he greeted Crowley like an average well-liked regular. His handshake as he acted out the performance of a nonchalant greeting was firm enough that it almost concealed the slight tremor possessing his fingers and, because there were a few customers within earshot, he wisely told Crowley that he had left something there last time, and went to retrieve it.

Crowley had not left a brown cloth shopping bag there last time, and certainly not one with another, black plastic bag inside containing several stacks of unmarked bills, but none of that was information that anyone but himself and the owner needed to know.

He bid the first man a clipped goodbye with a cold, nice-doing-business-with-you smile, and returned to his car. Behind the tinted windows, the money was counted, filed neatly into a white envelope labelled with the owner’s name and the due amount that had been paid, and transferred to a black combination-locked briefcase stowed under the passenger’s seat. On to the next job.

Ms. Vosters at the jewellery shop, whose stone-still smile flinched only once and who spoke just a hair quieter than normal conversational levels. The money taken, counted, transferred to the hidden briefcase.

Mr. and Mrs. Carrow at their restaurant, which smelled rather nice in fact, and Crowley wondered if he might pop by for lunch sometime. He didn’t wonder this aloud. Perhaps he’d just stop in someday, and make it a pleasant surprise for them. Money taken, counted, sequestered away where it belonged.

London resident after London resident, honest and hardworking people all around, each with varying degrees of success in maintaining their stoic exterior and disguising their palpable fear of Crowley and all he represented. Money changing hands, being counted, being stowed away with the rest. On to the next. On to the next. On to the next.

They all blurred together after a while, on a day like this. Fortunately for the collector, nearly all his interactions did indeed go off without a hitch. At this rate, he might even be back to his superiors _early_. But that was, despite the obvious superficial benefits to him, still rather unsavoury. He might have to find something to eat up a bit of time on the way back. It wouldn’t serve his purposes to appear too eager.

It wasn’t raining anymore. Crowley realised this suddenly, as he drove, his idle gaze searching for an appealing spot to stop and kill a few minutes. No, it wasn’t raining, but it was still grey and heavily overcast. The weather could easily change, one way or the other, on a dime. He weighed his options. St. James’ Park would be on his way. He wondered if he should gamble on a quick stroll and risk being caught in a sudden downpour. Then he grimaced. Best not. He’d pushed his luck far enough today. Besides, treading that ground for leisure was an entirely different gamble in itself. Even if he weren’t there for business, there was always the looming possibility that he might run into a member of the “family” that was. His teeth clenched reflexively at the thought of the questions he might have to answer if that were the case.

Not the park, then.

Something else? _Anything _else? Did he have errands to run? For himself, that is, not on behalf of someone else. No.

He might just have to grit his teeth and be early, this time. One isolated occasion of punctuality probably wouldn’t set their expectations of him too high, after all.

It seemed as though all too soon, he was pulling into the parking garage next to the Brimstone office building. Crowley thought of it, privately, in his own head only, as the office building that wasn’t.

It looked like any other office building. A generic four-sided tower. Tall, but not overly so. Nothing to distinguish it from any other corporate high-rise. And the interior was much the same. There was a reception desk on the ground floor, and the walls were some shade of off-white, and a few instances of abstract art were dotted about the place to add colour and ambiance, or something to that effect. The floors above had cubicles and offices and conference rooms, all of them pristine and tidy and cold. Most of them looked, if one took the time to notice, more or less untouched by human hands.

This was because they were.

With a few exceptions, none of the rooms of the building actually saw much use. Some of the larger offices, which housed important members doing important work, actually served a purpose. The reception served its purpose; contrary to its name and its traditional role, which was keeping people out.

The building also had a basement. This space was one of the few that saw use. Crowley wished he did not know about it.

The briefcase from under his car’s passenger seat was gripped, tightly and solidly, in his hand. The sinews of his fingers were as hard and unmoving as steel cables. But other than the subtle detail of his knuckles straining white against the skin, it did not show. His arm, all the way down to the wrist, was held as loosely and casually as it could ever be. Crowley was a much better actor than any of the people he had visited that day. He was a better actor than all of them.

The (so-called) receptionist was round-faced and wide-eyed and pretty, and she had been chosen for those qualities alone. She was a good actor too. Her voice was high and clear and lilted pleasantly when she talked, and it was nothing like her real voice. She was the picture of benevolent innocence, and the disguise was perfect and impenetrable.

Crowley greeted her by clearing his throat audibly and inclining his head as he passed.

“His office. Spit-spot!” She replied without glancing up, and her saccharine tone made Crowley’s blood run cold. He pushed the button to call the lift. It couldn’t come soon enough. The _ding! _that signalled its arrival was a mirror of the receptionist’s voice – deceptively, suspiciously, pleasant. And, at its core, cold and lifeless.

Only when he entered and the doors sealed him in did Crowley realise that he was, in fact, jumping out of the proverbial frying pan and into the fire. He hated the woman at the front desk and her false veneer of politeness so deeply that, in the brief minute in which he had been forced to endure it, he had quite forgotten that anything could be worse. But of course, there were many things that could be. And Crowley was fast approaching one of them, growing closer and closer as the red floor number displayed above the elevator doors counted up and up.

Dominic Diptera Helbourne was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a father figure to Crowley. He was only barely a father figure to his own children. But it was clear that he liked to think that he was. Or, at the very least, he wanted Crowley to think that he was, so that he could milk the illusion of a paternal relationship for all it was worth. All of the benefits, and none of the responsibility. He wanted Crowley to feel indebted to him, constantly, without offering anything of substance in return. He wanted respect without giving trust. He wanted obedience without giving reward.

And, in that respect, he was in fact a perfect mirror for a depressingly high number of actual fathers in the world.

Crowley knew all of this. He had known it for years. More than a decade, even. He didn’t let Dominic know that he knew. He pretended he still saw him as a father and a guide, pretended to feel what his boss so clearly wanted him to feel whenever it was necessary. He gave what he had to, feigned emotion when he had to, and left as soon as he could to resume going about his life as he pleased.

But as much as he subverted it, as much as he skirted around it, as much as he squirmed in his cage to widen the walls that held him, Crowley knew that in the end, Dominic Helbourne owned him. He could manipulate his way into getting a fair amount of liberty, but in the end he was, at best, like a housecat permitted to wander a fenced backyard. Free-roaming to an extent, but ultimately domestic.

The lift shuddered to a halt, and suddenly it seemed much colder.

Crowley exited, and walked perfunctorily down the hallway. The walls were cream-coloured, with more abstract paintings spaced precisely down their length. The carpet beneath his feet was course, but thick and plush, and deep red. Every door was heavy wood. The interior design was impeccable, so much so that the sallow fluorescent lighting barely mattered. And the entire floor was completely empty.

Crowley had heard that the path to Hell was paved with good intentions. This was false. He knew that the path to Hell was paved with wine-red carpeting.

And the gate loomed before him. At the end of the final hallway, a solid, dark wooden door.

His knuckles touched the wood, silently. It was best not to think about it. He quieted the storm in his head, and watched as his hand rapped confidently against the door.

“Come in,” a low voice buzzed from within.

Because he couldn’t turn back now, Crowley took the only course remaining to him, and opened the door.

By the time Dominic saw him, and he saw Dominic, Crowley was stone-faced and numb. His posture was exemplary, his back was straight and stiff, and his expression was ambivalent. He wasn’t stupid enough to show any vulnerability. To be anything less than totally self-assured in the presence of Dominic Helbourne would be like a young faun exposing its neck to a wolf.

He sat behind a massive, ornate desk in the rear centre of the expansive room. There was no harsh overhead lighting here; instead, light came from the exterior wall, which was made entirely of glass to let what little sunlight London ever saw come streaming in, and more soft light was emitted from several lamps set in wall sconces around the room’s perimeter. His surroundings served to enhance the palpable confidence that oozed from the man’s every pore. He was, all in all, very intimidating, despite not being large. He was tall, but only slightly, with a stocky torso and slim, lanky arms and legs. If one were to pay any time and attention to the details of his appearance, no one would come to the conclusion that Dominic Helbourne would be particularly dangerous in a fight. And yet, the proud way he held himself and the self-assuredness he exuded ensured that no one would ever think to start one.

“Sit.” Dominic stated, in the same tone one would use to command a dog. He gestured to the large chair that was crooked at an inviting diagonal in front of the desk. Crowley obeyed, crossing the empty expanse of room with long, smooth strides and taking his place with no objections. He set the briefcase on the desk between them.

Dominic did not sit. He stood, towering over Crowley now, and opened the briefcase. Slowly, with painstaking precision, he removed each envelope of money from the case, and counted out each individual bill. Crowley tried to look comfortable and unbothered, but the visitor’s chair made this very difficult. He couldn’t swing his legs over one arm and lounge backwards – the arms were wooden, claw-footed, and thin, and the chair back, though soft enough to lean back against, was straight and stiff. The seat was just narrow enough that he wouldn’t be able to cross one ankle over his knee without sitting on the very edge of it, which conferred the exact opposite of ease. In the end, he had to settle for crossing his legs and leaning against one arm. It would hurt his shoulder after a while, but for now he could cope.

As Dominic continued thumbing through the cash and muttering assorted multiples of ten under his breath, Crowley cast his glance around the room. There were a few games he usually played to occupy this time. Mucking about on his phone would not be tolerated for long, since it showed disrespect. So instead, he defaulted to other pastimes.

He picked a bookshelf on the wall – they were all ornamental, the books dusty and unread, the shelves ornate and pristine. He counted how many books of each colour were on each shelf. He would see how many titles he could make out. When the decorative books grew boring, he would cast his eyes about for another game. The giant floor-to ceiling windows. How many birds could he see outside? How many sitting, on buildings or telephone wires? How many in the air? How many of each colour of car could he count on the streets below?

Crowley checked his phone for a moment, pretended to be responding to a text. He felt disapproving eyes burn into his skull, and put it away again.

Too many dull heartbeats, too many seconds that stretched out like warm dough later, the imposing patriarch cleared his throat.

“All present and accounted for,” he said with what passed for warmth, “Good job, Crowley.”

“All in a day’s work.” Crowley shrugged off as he orchestrated an ever-so-slight crook to the corners of his mouth. Though he let nothing show, he secretly felt a massive wave of relief wash through him. He knew Dominic was in a good mood when he used his last name, instead of the first.

Crowley tried to stand, but Dominic had already rounded the desk, and clapped a hand down on his shoulder before he could rise.

“You know I’m always proud of your work.” said the man who loomed above a very uncomfortable, but steel-faced, Anthony Crowley. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, sir,” the subordinate responded vacantly. Dominic caught on to the monotone of his voice, and when Crowley caught his eye, he flashed an eyebrow dangerously. Crowley coughed, soft and deep in his throat.

“I always do my best, of course. Wouldn’t dream of anything less.” he amended, never breaking eye contact. That, and the careful emphasis he placed on each word, ensured that his loyalty was unquestionable.

Dominic Helbourne gave him a curt nod in way of response, and released his shoulder. Crowley stood, nonchalant as anything, and sauntered towards the door.

“Thanks as always, Dom. _Ciao_.” he bade over his shoulder. He reached the exit, releasing himself from the room with a turn of the door handle that seemed to take an eternity too long. As he turned to close the doors behind him, however, he was arrested one final time.

“Oh, and Anthony?”

“Yes?” he gulped.

“I have an extra assignment for you this week. I’ll text you more details later. Keep your burner on hand.”

“Ah. Yes. Will do. Thank you.”

His grip now like a vice on the handle, Crowley finally pulled the heavy door shut. The loud _click _of the latch sliding back into place triggered a relieved exhale from him, which was a mild surprise to its issuer, since he hadn’t intended to do it at all.

With a good, solid barrier now firmly between himself and Dominic Diptera, Crowley allowed himself a moment’s pause. He had to be careful, because he didn’t know who might be roaming the hallways. With his ears still open for footsteps and his hand firmly staying the door handle, Crowley touched his forehead, ever so tenderly, against the cool, smooth wood grain in front of him. He breathed in once, and out once, consciously, to steady his breath. A single second, maybe two. That was all it took. It was all he could risk for now.

He turned, then, a perfectly mechanical about-face, and sauntered back the way he had come. He ran his fingers through his hair, ensuring that no strands escaped the gel that slicked them back and physically reminding himself to keep his chin cocked up. Cool and collected.

In the elevator, alone again for a few moments, he stewed. His hand subconsciously found his pocket, fumbled the outline of the cheap flip-phone he carried with him, waiting and worrying that it might buzz already.

_Ding! _And like a Pavlovian dog of demeanour, Crowley had flinched his hand away and reset to a posture of effortless confidence before the metal doors even began to slide open.

“See you next time!” The actress who played a receptionist called after him. He raised the back of his hand to her as he left, without turning around, and gestured in what vaguely passed as a wave.

“Always a pleasure.” he returned flatly.

The parking garage was, in contrast to the building it served, mercifully dim. Crowley kept his sunglasses on nevertheless. Every step he took echoed through the huge, barren concrete structure.

Or at least, it would have, if his steps made any sound at all.

They never did.

He used to be careful about that, but before long he didn’t have to anymore. It came naturally. His strides carried him silently to his car, where he got in and promptly shut out the world with the impenetrable barrier of the driver’s side door.

Here, in his car, he was safe. The car was his. The space inside the chassis, that cocooned him like no embrace he’d ever felt, was his. This safe haven, externally, was a stark black 2008 Bentley Continental GT Speed. He had bought it new, and kept it immaculate ever since. It was the first thing he’d ever purchased with money that was entirely his own, when his paychecks started going entirely into his bank account, no longer being heavily docked to settle his debt to the Helbournes. No more deficit, no more reliance, nothing but himself and his car. With the Bentley, he could go anywhere if he wanted to. He could pack himself and all his belongings into its veneered shelter and just drive; go anywhere in the world.

That was the fantasy, of course. The reality was that no matter where he went, the Helbournes would find him and drag him back, or worse.

But in the Bentley, for those moments both relaxing and stimulating when he drove, just temporarily, the reality didn’t matter. All he needed to focus on were the present moment, the gas pedal and the gear shift and the wheel. It was the closest thing to meditation Crowley had ever done.

He slid the key into the ignition and turned, listening to the low, muted roar of his pride and joy stirring to life as all the little lights on the dashboard woke up. He threw it into reverse, backed out of the space, and took full advantage of the vehicle’s power of acceleration as he sped out of the parking garage.

Even Mach speed couldn’t have carried him away from Dominic and his rotten, empty office building fast enough, but Crowley would damn well try.


End file.
